


Joy by the Beach: A year of letters

by thicklikemud



Series: An Airmail Fairy Tale [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Letters, M/M, Mexico, Moving On, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Break Up, Post-Prison, post 7x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8862136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thicklikemud/pseuds/thicklikemud
Summary: After Ian says goodbye to Mickey's fine fugitive ass at the U.S. - Mexico border, Mickey finds his way to the beach. While Mickey starts over post-prison break, Ian returns to his same old Southside life. Everyone's favorite sketchy barmaid, Svetlana, has got some sort of shady hook up with Mickey's communications so each chapter has a delivery from Mickey and a glimpse of Ian's day. Post 7x11. Excerpt:". . . if you're gonna keep writing to that Kind-bar-munching ambulance-humper, you might as well do it with some fucking panache.”Words in other languages are hyperlinked. Click for definition.





	1. Muy Deliciosos!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday, January 7, 2017
> 
> Almost 4 weeks since seeing Mickey off

Ian's coffee mug was halfway to his lips when he heard a knock at the front door of the Gallagher house. He gulped down a quick sip before getting up and groggily shuffling from the dining table through the living room. It was a lazy Saturday morning in early January and Ian wasn't expecting any guests.

When he answered the door, he found Svetlana glaring back at him with an unimpressed scowl, Yegveny resting on her hip. Her coat was open and underneath she wore a low-cut baby blue sweater with white snowflakes. She thrust a box at him, cleavage jiggling like jello, “Howdy Doody, you have mail.”

“Thanks. I guess the mailman brought it to your home by accident?” Ian took the small package and clutched it against his belly.

“No,” Svetlana replied simply, almost curtly.

She looked at him in the eyes pointedly for a second then abruptly turned and walked away as Yevgeny sang “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” Ian was taken aback by the strange exchange but merely closed the door behind them.

Still groggy, Ian shuffled back to the kitchen, sat down at the dining table and looked at this package. It had no stamps. It had no address. It was around the size of a thick dictionary and felt similar in weight.

He tore off the brown paper wrapping and uncovered a box with a picture of taquitos. In bold letters the box declared the taquitos to be “ _[Muy Deliciosos](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Muy%20Deliciosos)._ ” Ian inhaled deeply. He never thought the image of _[taquitos de res](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/tacos%20de%20res%22) _would make his heart skip a beat, but here he was -- anxious, elated, and on the verge of tears.__

He opened the box reverently and discovered another smaller box inside. Taped to the front of the smaller box was an envelope with Mickey’s chicken scratching across the front, “Ian.” The package held a plastic bag full of sand, and a seashell wrapped in a flyer for a Mexican department store.

Ian smiled to himself. So Mickey had finally made his way down to a beach paradise. There was a postcard of a sandy seaside excitedly exclaiming “Puerto Vallarta!” Behind this postcard was a letter on brown paper with an irregular rectangular-ish shape. It looked like Mickey had simply torn a paper bag apart and used it as stationery. The paper was rough around the edges -- just like Mickey.

 

* * *

 

Ian,  
I fucking hate the beach. Sand gets stuck to my balls and up my fucking ass crack. Seagulls always up in my shit trying to eat my Pringles. It ain’t all bad though. The sunsets here are so different. They’re brighter and redder. They look like I took your fucking pubes and spread them all over the sky. When I finally made it to the beach and saw that first firecrotchedy sunset, I wished you coulda been here to see it too. But you got your pussy ass life going on, so I figured I’d bring the beach to you. That’s some Grade A Puerto Vallarta sand. Don’t fucking spill that shit.

Take care.

-M

P.S. I ate a Kind bar with my coffee yesterday. You really think that shit is better than pork rinds and forties? Fuck off with that.


	2. Free Tacos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 27, 2017
> 
> 1.5 months since Mickey's departure and 3 weeks since Ian got the first letter. 
> 
> Ian gets along with Trevor. Mickey gets by with a little help.

Ian slid into a booth at the Alibi while Trevor picked up a pitcher of beer for them to share. They swapped work stories. Ian regaled Trevor with the funniest Sue-isms he could remember from his shift that day. It was starting to feel comfortable between the two of them again.

After returning from the Mexican border a month and a half ago, Ian told Trevor about his bipolar disorder but not about being with Mickey. Ian didn’t want to risk anyone snitching on Mickey’s whereabouts or that Ian helped him. Instead, Ian said that he was fucking and sucking on the wrinkled balls of a regular client from his dancing days. Trevor was shocked and hurt, of course.

Ian thought that if Monica hadn’t died shortly before his return that Trevor would have simply dumped him and moved on. But Monica did die and Trevor did the supportive boyfriend thing. As fucked up as things were, Ian was glad to have someone by his side.

At the same time, he kind of felt like Trevor enjoyed having this selfless martyr thing to hold over Ian. He never said it in words, but it hung in the air between them anyway. But tonight? Tonight was a perfectly pleasant night.

Trevor had just finished a riveting story about the client case notes audit he was preparing for when Svetlana placed her hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Carrot Boy, help me reach something in closet.” Ian excused himself and followed Svetlana to the back room. In the room was a step ladder and Ian wondered why Svetlana didn’t just use the ladder instead of bringing him over.

She reached into a box of tequila and pulled out a manila envelope. Within was an invoice for the tequila and between the folded pages was an envelope. She handed it to Ian, “You take it now, or you want me to hold for you when your boyfriend is gone?”

Ian stared at the plain white envelope in his hand. He looked back up at Svetlana. “I’ll take it,” he nodded and walked back to his date, stuffing the envelope in his bookbag when he returned to the booth.

He wasn’t sure if it was the pleasant vibe, the beer, or the letter in his bag but Ian felt really fucking giddy by the time he got home.

 

* * *

 

Ian,

I never thanked you for hooking me up. I’m pretty fucking sure when you were riding around town in your ambulance busting your ass all year it wasn’t so I could go munch on damn tacos. Fuck, Ian, real tacos are nothing like that microwaveable bagged shit that I used to drop my load on in the Kash and Grab freezers. I wasn’t even sure if I liked them at first but I didn’t wanna be some stuck up  _[gringo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/gringo)_  bitch so I kept eating them. I kinda had to. I don’t know why but everywhere I went during my first weekend in Puerto Vallarta, people kept giving me free tacos. Maybe it was some divine retribution shit for never cleaning my spunk off the taco bags years ago and probably the free tacos I ate were covered in some other fucker’s jizz.

Speaking of jizz, I was at a bar earlier and met this waitress. American, too. Her name is Joy but she has a bad fucking attitude. I told her that it’s funny that she’s named Joy and this skank tells me that my face is funny. She put extra  _[chicharrón](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/chicharr%C3%B3n) _ with my lunch and said if I come back regularly she’d teach me Spanish. When it got slow, she came over with a book and taught me a few phrases. It was the kinda book with stupid drawings to help you learn new words. I caught her checking my knuckles real hard when I’d turn the pages. I figured she likes my fingers and I kinda owed her for the lesson, so I fingerbanged her.

Thanks, Ian.

-Mickey

P.S. I didn’t wash my hands before I started writing this letter, so you got that skank’s puss juice on you too. Enjoy, bitch.

 

* * *

 

Ian grimaced. Then he laughed. Then he lifted the letter and sniffed it out of curiosity.


	3. Cemita y Cerveza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 3, 2017
> 
> One month and three weeks after Mickey's departure, one week since the last letter. 
> 
> Ian and Svetlana come to an understanding. Mickey has a new hustle and hobby.

“I am not with Vee and Big Poppa anymore. You know this,” Svetlana spoke impassively.

Ian’s slight smile faded, “I didn't. Sorry.”

“I need help with Yevgeny. I give you mail sometimes. You give me help sometimes. Everyone is happy. No problem.”

Ian looked at her face for a few beats. He hadn’t been trusted to care for Yevgeny since the manic road trip kidnapping. In fact, he had actively avoided seeing Yevgeny as much as possible. Svetlana’s face was relaxed except for the worry in her sea green eyes. Is that really the color of the sea? Would that color make Mickey happy or would it just remind him of the fucked up situation he left behind?

Ian put his hand on her arm and smiled weakly, “Everyone is happy. No problem.”

She quickly looked down and away, and reached into a drawer. “For you,” she handed him his plain white envelope.

“Svet, I'm sorry.”

“Yes, you said already.”

“No,” Ian swallowed, “For that time before. With Yevgeny.”

Ian could see her body tense up. Svetlana blinked hard at the floor.

She turned back to him, sea green eyes flooded, “Feeling sorry is of no use. Doing sorry is important. You got better. You do whatever to keep your shit together. You stay better. To me that is apology I can understand. That is apology I can trust. Apology Yevgeny can trust too.” Ian grabbed her hand while turning his back on her. He held on tightly and sobbed.

By the time he got to his bedroom that evening, Ian’s eyes were red and his face was splotchy. All this time he had felt too ashamed to spend time with Svetlana and Yevgeny while she had long forgiven him. He rested his head on his lumpy old pillow and breathed through the crying-induced soreness in his chest. Ian decided to save the letter for morning when he would be less worn out.

 

* * *

 

 _[Buenas tardes](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Buenas%20tardes)_ motherfucker,  
I’ve been teaching people English. Well, kind of. I’m not like a fucking professor or whatever. And fuck if I remember grammar and all that shit, but guess what. These college students out here already know that shit. They just want an apple pie eating  _[Americano](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Americano)_  to come and talk to them for a couple of hours and they fucking pay me. I thought Joy was shitting me when she told me about this. I mean doesn’t it sound like a fucking scam to you? I kept thinking it was some Mexican slang for the shit Svetlana used to do.

Anyway, Joy pimped me out on craigslist and I have 6 students now. We usually meet at Joy’s bar and they sometimes toss in _[una cemita y cerveza](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/una%20cemita%20y%20cerveza)_  to go with my payment. She likes it cause she gets tipped when I have hungry students and I like it cause I get paid to eat sandwiches and bullshit a little. Sometimes I take them to the beach for inspiration and we practice saying stuff like “As far as I'm concerned, seagulls can go right ahead and fuck off.” Never in my fucking life did I imagine fancy college kids following me around town scribbling down my every word. Yeah, Joy hooked me up nice. She still a nasty ass skank though. Fucking cantankerous as all hell.

I’ve started a new hobby. I’ve been writing. Joy showed me this section on craigslist called Rants and Raves. Sometimes during Joy’s slow shifts, we find some garbage to complain about and post it there. Our first rant was titled “ _[¡Putas Gaviotas!](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1Putas%20Gaviotas!)_ ” I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve ranted about your bitch ass a few times. She translates them to Spanish and gives you a new name in those posts so don’t even bother trying to find them.

Listen, I just found out about Monica. Fuck, Ian, I’m sorry. Guess it was good you turned back when you did. But what the fuck do I know?

-Mickey

P.S. Joy says Kind bars are for  _[pendejos](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/pendejos)_.


	4. Peanut Butter Sandwich and Kool-Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, February 26, 2017
> 
> Two and a half months since Mickey's departure, a little over a month since the last letter. 
> 
> The boys deal with different types of homesickness.

“What’s the fucking point of all this?” Ian was lying on his back knees bent, feet flat on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

“What do you mean?” Lip sat on the corner of Ian’s worn bed and looked out the window. He rested his chin in his hand.

“So, why do people try to get a good job and work on relationships and deal with family and for what? To just die? Why not just run off and do what you want, when you want, how you want?”

“Wow. You missing Monica or something? That’s her fucking M.O.” Lip asked, still looking out the window.

Ian felt a little ashamed in realizing he was drawing on Monica-style logic, “I guess so. Missing a lot of things. Missing the point.”

Lip turned to Ian slowly. Very carefully he asked, “Hey, uh, you talking about suicide?”

“No,” Ian laughed, “Sorry, I didn't even think of it that way.”

Lip exhaled and shook his head, “Maybe you oughta get laid. Might relieve some stress and what not.”

"Nah, that. . ." Ian shook his head slightly, “that's stressful, too.”

Lip turned back to the look out the window, “Yeah, kinda noticed that. Uh, Trevor, he’s, uh, a little intense sometimes, yeah?”

“What’s that mean?” Ian bristled just a touch, somewhat embarrassed that the tension between him and Trevor was apparent to outsiders.

“He likes to be involved, to be the one with the right answers,” Lip remembered Trevor spouting off some unsolicited advice while they planned Monica’s funeral. Pushy fucker. Trevor was the epitome of what his buddy Joaquin calls “all up in the fucking Kool-aid, don't even know what flava it is.”

“Doesn't everyone?” Ian shrugged.

Lip turned back to Ian and let out a laugh, “Yeah I guess so. Fuck. All up in the fucking Kool-Aid.”

“What? Kool-Aid? Do we have Kool-Aid? Why aren't we drinking some? Jesus, Lip.” Ian bolted before Lip could explain that there was no Kool-Aid in the Gallagher house. Ian bounded down the stairs to the kitchen and began furiously searching for Kool-Aid to no avail.

So he was stressed, horny, and thirsty as fuck when Svetlana dropped off Yevgeny and his state didn't go unnoticed. “You should get some genital stimulation. I see in your eyes, even in your smell,” Svetlana said.

“My smell?” Ian had never heard of such a thing.

“Yes,” Svetlana raised her brows emphatically and nodded, “from old job I can tell.”

“Ok, thanks,” Ian didn't know why he thanked her but he couldn't think of any other response.

“You don't do this now. You care for Yevgeny now. Get laid later, ok?” Svetlana stared him down.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Ian placed Yevgeny on his hip and took his bag.

“Here is something,” Svetlana started searching through her purse.

While she rummaged around, Ian smelled something faint and sweet. Was that perfume? Flowers? Must be coming from Svetlana, he thought.

“Ah!” she plucked and placed the softly scented letter in Ian’s hand.

Examining the latest delivery, Ian saw it was very different from the usual perfunctory business envelopes. It was the size and shape of a birthday card. A washed out image of a waterfall adorned the front and it had a special roughened texture. It was strange coming from Mickey but Ian found the design nice, kind of relaxing, almost cute.

 

* * *

 

Sup Gallagher,  
You like this, don't you? Fucking knew you would, you predictable fuck. This stationery set was a present for Valentine’s Day. Down here Valentine’s Day is for lovers, friends, and family -- all the fucking things I've got in short supply. Joy wrapped the present up in plain paper and drew dicks and hairy balls all over the front. On the other side she’d drawn Steven Seagal lying on the hood of an orange ‘67 Mustang stroking his ponytail and his cock. Not good enough to jerk off to but damn realistic. I asked her why the fuck she spent money buying me paper when I could find paper for free and she said, “ _[Mira](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/mira)_ , if you're gonna keep writing to that Kind-bar-munching ambulance-humper, you might as well do it with some fucking panache.”

Had my first date. This guy Ernesto is friends with one of the college students I teach. He said he’s studying archeology and knows three languages. We went hiking and at the top of this hill, he showed me how to make a blade from rocks like a fucking caveman. Nicked myself a bunch but it was still badass. I was gonna send the blade to you but I figured I gotta _[cuidado](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/cuidado)_  with the bipolar shit. When the hike ended neither of us were fucking hauled off by the MP, so I guess that makes it a successful first date. That and all the ass eating in the forest. Kinda fucking magical getting ya ass eat at a waterfall by some rock-bashing Indiana Jones wannabe.

Heard you've been holding it down with Yev. Thanks man. Feeling homesick. Even missing that numbskull Iggy. Met a couple of fellows named Ignacio last week and I wanted to call both those assclowns Iggy instead. Guess fucking Valentine’s got me twisted. Down as fuck today.

-Mickey

P.S. Forest animals are such fucking dicks. They stole my peanut butter sandwich and left me nothing but turds.


	5. La Rana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, March 1, 2017
> 
> A few days later.  
> Yevgeny and Ian hang. Mickey shares some fatherly advice.

Three days later, Yevgeny was climbing on Ian as he sat on the Gallagher couch. Ian had come home only three hours before from an overnight shift. Even on days like this when he was tired from having worked earlier, he enjoyed Yev’s company.

He had also spent a lot of time pondering Svetlana’s advice to do apologies, not merely say them. Ian felt that watching Yevgeny was an apology to all three of them for the things he wished he could do over, do better. He especially wanted to feel like he was helping Mickey, showing in his actions that he still cared and wanted to make up for all the times he didn't visit, and for the time they last saw each other.

Back at the Milkovich house when they all lived together, Ian used to love hanging with Yevgeny. They would take walks around town, go on errands together, and exercise together. It was beautiful really, and back then Ian had felt that Yevgeny was just as much his son as he was Svetlana’s and Mickey’s. He huffed a little laugh realizing that Svetlana sure does seem to like group parenting, creating and recreating parenting trios wherever she lands.

Maybe this was part of the reason she fell so naturally into the throuple with Vee and Kev. Ian shuddered. It was disturbing to think about what Svet did to them -- taking the Alibi. Ian couldn't really understand why Svetlana would think this was ok. In a way it didn't really matter though. Yev sure as hell didn't start that fire.

Yev eventually tired of climbing Ian and decided that pulling the contents of his bag and dropping them on the floor was a more worthwhile endeavor. The kid screeched every time something hit the floor. It was sweet seeing how fascinating gravity could be to the uninitiated.

Ian vaguely remembered when Liam was really into seeing things drop as a toddler and laughed at the similarities. Finally Yev pulled out a paper and flapped it at Ian, jumping in anticipation. He let out shrill yelps of excitement, “ _[Da! Da! Da!](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#ru/en/%D0%B4%D0%B0!%20%D0%B4%D0%B0!%20%D0%B4%D0%B0!)_ ”

“Hey, Yev, what's got you all worked up?” Ian laughed as he accepted the paper and placed Yevgeny on his lap. On one side was a simple drawing of the beach, the ocean in the background, two seagulls flying, a rainbow colored umbrella on the right, and sun shining in the top left corner. All the items were labeled in Spanish.

Yev pointed at the seagulls, “ _[gaviotas](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/gaviotas)._ ”

Ian burst out laughing remembering that Mickey hated goddamn _gaviotas_. The kid felt encouraged by Ian’s laughter and pointed at the sun, “ _[el sol](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/el%20sol)_.”

Ian hugged Yev, “Great job,  _[amigo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/amigo)_.”

Ian mused that Yev probably couldn't read the letters and had merely begun memorizing the sounds that go with each picture. It was a start, though. It would be really impressive if Yevgeny learned three languages: English, Russian, and little Spanish.

Ian suddenly grimaced at the unwanted thought of Mickey’s rendez vous with that three language speaking, Indiana Jonesing, ass muncher. Aw, fuck that guy, Ian thought. He hoped for a Raiders of the Lost Ark sized boulder to find this interloper and avenge all the little rocks he’d chipped into blades over his lifetime.

Yevgeny was blissfully unaware of Ian’s rocky fantasies, and went through each item in the drawing six times. When Yevgeny was satisfied that Ian had studied long enough, he turned the sheet over with his small hands and handed it back to Ian. He looked up at Ian expectantly, waiting for Ian to read him the letter written on the flipside.

 

* * *

 

Hey Yevvy,

I hope you like the picture I drew for you. Thanks for the picture you made for me. I've never seen a frog bigger than a bear before. It was also cool that the frog was on fire. That’s pretty badass.

Today I read a book at the beach. If you were with me I’d read it to you too. You would like the beach, Yevvy. I bet you would be a world class sand castle maker. You just seem like the kind of kid who could build anything up and make them bigger and stronger, like giant fire frogs blazing all over the place. Don't let anyone ever tell you frogs can only be small and wet. Your frogs can be whatever you want them to be, got that? And anyone who tells you otherwise needs to just back the hell off.

_[Cuídate, mi hijo. Escucha a tu madre.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Cu%C3%ADdate%2C%20mi%20hijo.%20Escucha%20a%20tu%20madre.) _

-Dad

P.S. _[La rana](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/La%20rana) _ is frog in Spanish.

 


	6. The Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, March 5, 2017
> 
> 2 months and 3 weeks after Mickey's departure.  
> 4 days since last letter.
> 
> Ian and Trevor are done. Mickey thinks about what it means to be a man.

It was over. Trevor and Ian were done. Kaput. The end. Mic drop.

There was much Ian liked about Trevor.  He was fucking cute as hell. With his big brown eyes and soft curly brown hair no one could tell Ian that Trevor wasn't a handsome motherfucker. Trevor was also such a good person. His work for the community, his openness to trying new experiences, his love of learning -- these were all things Ian was drawn to. These were all things Ian would miss.

But Ian knew that it was over now between them. It had been over for a few weeks, just festering while they ignored its sad pathetic state, neither of them pulling the plug. Actually, in a way the relationship had been over for months. The road trip with Mickey was a fatal blow and since then it had just been in a coma. Ian felt sorry for how he handled the situation but didn't regret being with Mickey one last time.

It was wrong to run off and just show up so cavalierly, as Monica had done to him and the family so many times. He remembered the night Trev met Monica, Ian yelling in the street about how fucked up it was for her to flee then worm her way back into their lives. Trevor straight up told him to “move on.” Ian’s face burned up thinking of it and he felt his fists and jaw clench. Still that moment enraged him and Ian gasped. “I wanted him to know what it felt like,” Ian whispered to himself, stunned by the realization, “Huh, I'm a vindictive fuck.”

Ian remained seated in the lounge area at work just staring into space. When he first saw Trevor after the road trip to Mexico, he invited Trevor to grab some drinks only a few beats after admitting he had run off with another man. Move on. Well, Trevor, it's not that easy after all, is it?

Fuck, he’d done this kind of thing to Mickey too, hadn't he?

“Don't. . . Just. . .” Ian remembered jutting his chin, his eyes fixed hard on Mickey’s crumbling face as he choked on those words. Feel that, Ian thought. Feel what it's like to lose me and fuck you for not asking me to stay. Fuck you, Mickey.

"I didn't come here for you," Ian taunted him as he walked out of his room, out of his life.

Ian pressed his hand over his mouth as he mulled over his vengeful streak. Sue walked into the locker room and stopped in her tracks, “Oh come on, Gallagher. Are you sick?”

“No, I just. . . I need to break up with Trevor.”

Sue looked Ian quizzically, “You still together? Thought you guys been done.”

“Exactly,” Ian smiled sadly. He would do it tonight after watching Yevgeny in the afternoon.

When he finished his shift, Ian went to the Alibi to pick up Yev. Svetlana packed his bag and kissed Yev goodbye, “He is cranky today. Probably he will just sleep. If he wakes up and is mad, you read some old letters I put in bag for him. He likes mail. He thinks he's special when he has mail.”

 

* * *

 

Hi Yevvy,

Your mom tells me that you've been crying a lot lately because the last of your teeth are growing in. I hope you feel better soon buddy. Wish I could help you.  

You might meet some people who’ll tell you that to be a man you need to stop crying. Forget those losers. You cry if you wanna cry. Don't make you less of a man, Yev.

Becoming a man means trying to do better than before. Like fixing your mistakes or not making the same mistakes as me and your mom. That's more important than not crying or acting tough. You're a Milkovich so you're already plenty tough, Yevgeny. Everyone in our family got their teeth and I know you're strong enough to do it too.

-Dad

P.S. Biting people will make your teeth feel better.


	7. La Excavación

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, April 2, 2017
> 
> Three months, one week since Mickey’s departure. Five weeks since Ian's last letter.
> 
> Ian cleans his room. Mickey keeps clean.

Fiona joined Ian at the Gallagher dining table, a box of cereal in hand, “I’m off today and was gonna toss some junk out. You think you could clear your stuff out of your old bedroom? We could do it together.”

“Alright, I guess so,” Ian sighed. It wasn't how he wanted to spend his day off but he had no reason to refuse. Cleaning was easy enough.

After breakfast they went to the bedroom and Ian got to work on the dresser. He tossed a mess of West Point catalogs, Army brochures, old bottles of lube, a few magazines, and broken pens before he found it. The fake ID he used to enlist for the army. Philip Gallagher printed under Ian’s smiling face.

He used to envy Lip so much. He seemed to have it all: the right age, the right smarts, the right sexuality, the right connections. Back then Ian felt he didn't quite measure up. Ian flipped the ID over a few times in his hand and instead of tossing it, he put it in his pocket.

There was more junk behind his old bed. Cigarette butts, more magazines (Jesus, how much did he used to jerk off?), wire hangers, and odd metal pieces from Lip’s robotics experiments. Maybe he and Fiona should take all this trash and just drop it off with that lying cheater Caleb. Didn't he say he liked to find the treasure inside of trash or some shit like that?

Ian rolled his eyes thinking about how Caleb must’ve approached the relationship like Ian was some Frankenstein-type experiment -- decrease Southside trashiness, maintain shock levels for family gatherings, add an EMT job for respectability, nudge knob toward bisexuality. Regardless, Ian was glad that he had met Caleb. He doubts he would've become an EMT if he hadn't. Maybe he would still be Dav. Ian burst out laughing.

“Hey Fiona? Remember when I was Dav?” Ian couldn't stop laughing.

Fiona made a confused yet amused face. “Ian, I don't know what in the world you're talking about,” Fiona laughed anyway. Her brother's laughter was contagious.

“After I left Patsy’s I worked as a janitor for a quick second. I wasn't even there long enough to have my own uniform. I used a uniform left behind by a guy named Dave but the department was too cheap to pay for more than 3 letters so the uniform said Dav.” Ian was tearing now and red in the face from laughing. Fiona’s eyes widened in surprise while she laughed along.

After catching their breaths, they continued cleaning with Fiona addressing Ian as Dav the rest of the morning. “Heads up, Dav. Is this yours? You still want it?” Fiona tossed a tank top to Ian.

It was one of Mickey’s. Ian shook it out. “Yeah, I want it,” he said. The shirt was probably left behind from the period when Mickey had bought him “all the fucking B's.” He had taken so much of his frustration with the diagnosis out on Mickey. Ian hadn't wanted things to change, but change never gave a fuck about what Ian wanted. Change would go on whether he liked it or not.

Ian sighed. He wasn't like this anymore: not G.I. Joe, not an imposter Lip, not Caleb’s trash-to-treasure sculpture, not Dav, not the boy who resisted his bipolar diagnosis. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and groaned. This wasn’t how Ian wanted to spend his day off. Cleaning was really fucking hard.

 

* * *

 

Hey Ian,

Guess who the fuck I just saw. Fiona’s ex, that Bugs Bunny looking asswipe, the one whose stolen car you and Lip got busted in way back when. Bugs was walking around the beach in his preppy plaid shorts, his preppy boat shoes with no socks (come the fuck on with that shit), his preppy pink button down shirt and that same old smug punchable face. My hands still itch thinking about him cause I swear, his face just begs my fists for a good old-fashioned beat down. That  _[cabrón](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/cabr%C3%B3n) _ saw me too. He just nodded and kept walking with an oily, suntanned Fiona 2.0.

I wonder if he’s caught up in the same old  _[mierda](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/mierda)_. I’m not trying to be about that life. Not anymore, at least. I'm keeping my nose clean as long as I can. I kinda feel like I owe it to you since you gave up a year of your future so I could start over. Hey, maybe one day I'll even be all official like you. I doubt it but you know what I figure? If motherfucking seagulls can eat BBQ Pringles, then why can't a trashy Southside jailbird go legit one day?

Yo, fucking Joy is up to some weird shit again. She has this thing called a Forever Lazy. It's like one of those all-in-one pajamas that Yev wears but it's for adults and it has a fucking butt flap. Honest to god, Ian, it really does. She has me take photos of her wearing stripper shoes with this get up. She wears the front zipped low so her tits hang out and the butt flap open showing her thong. We sell the photos on eBay. Somewhat fucking disturbing but whatever, I get paid.

-Mickey

  
P.S. Nesto had me borrow the Forever Lazy so he could conduct an archeological dig on my ass through the butt flap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 5, episode 10 -- Mickey says regarding vitamins: "I didn't know which B to get so I just bought all the fucking B's."


	8. The Back of the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday, April 22, 2017
> 
> Four months after Mickey's departure. Three weeks since Ian's last letter.
> 
> Ian looks back at the start of his career. Mickey looks forward to the beginning of a possible career.

Ian’s stomach churned. He wanted Mickey to have his ridiculous shirt but the idea of retrieving it was making him anxious. The whole reason Mickey had that shirt in the first place was because Ian had gone on a luggage-stealing rampage during a manic episode. Mickey sifted through the contents of one suitcase, found that damn shirt, declared it “kinda sexy,” and wore it to the Alibi that same day.

That manic episode also resulted in Ian impulsively filming a bareback scene in a porno, kidnapping Yev, and finally, his bipolar diagnosis. He felt his stomach twist even more. He hadn't been back to the Milkovich home since then. Neither had Svetlana or Yev. He can understand why she didn't want to go back because he sure as hell didn't want to either.

Still, Mickey had specifically asked him for this favor so maybe he should go ahead and do it. It’s just a shirt, right?

Ian decided to get the shirt after a run. He ran a mile of anxiety out of his system, then jogged up to the Milkovich door and knocked. Music was playing in the house. Was that a Color Me Badd song? There was some grumbling on the other side of the door and the music stopped.  A young woman wearing a handkerchief on her head and gloves answered the door. Ian didn't recognize her and became flustered. Did the Milkoviches move? Fucking gentrification.

He stuttered, “Oh, uh, hi? Is this the . . . Uh . . . Did they . . .Um, who are you?”

“I'm Mrs. Milkovich,” she scowled.

“You're Mrs. Milkovich?” Ian looked at her blankly, mouth agape.

“Yes,” she said. Ian continued staring and her annoyance only increased. Very slowly, she spat out, “Who? The fuck? Are you?”

“I thought you . . .,” he was just blubbering now, “Aren't you . . .”

“You thought I what? The fuck you think you know about me? I just got here yesterday,” she shook her head in disgust. “You always go up to people’s houses and interrogate them without even introducing yourself?”

“Oh, fuck. I’m Ian, Ian Gallagher. I was looking for Iggy or whoever.”

She looked him over and nodded. “Iggy’s mentioned you before. I'm Iggy’s wife. He’s out right now, along with the rest of those losers. Want me to tell ‘em you passed by?”

“Uh, no. Maybe you can help me. I used to live here back when Mickey was still around. I needed to get some clothes from the dresser if they haven't been tossed by now.”

“Ok, I guess,” she eyed him warily, “Just don't murder me or molest me or make me regret this in any way.”

“No, I'm not like that,” he laughed.

She opened the door wider and stepped aside. “You the one who ran off with Iggy’s nephew, right? You were like . . . ghetto married to his brother, yeah? Ya dropped his jailbird ass too, didn't ya?”

“Yeah, that was me,” Ian muttered as he entered the house. It was a little neater than before. Apparently Mrs. Milkovich had been in the middle of cleaning. There were large contractor bags filled with trash, and boxes with sorted items.

Mrs. Milkovich turned the music back on. It was indeed Color Me Badd. “So, yeah, I dunno exactly what ‘I'm not like that’ means, but that and your fucking charming introduction are all the info I've got to work with for now.”

“I didn't fucking murder or molest anyone! Jesus!" he snapped.

She froze and actually looked scared shitless for a second. “Damn, son. Look, I just don't know who you are. That's all I'm saying.”

“Sorry,” he winced, “That shit was a long time ago. It . . . I just wanted to not have to deal with it now.”

He was happy to see the hardness return to her face. It was familiar. No wonder Iggy was drawn to her. Her scowl fit the family just right. She nodded at him.

They walked together to the old bedroom he once shared with Mickey. It was untouched, every poster in place, every wrinkle and crack as he remembered it. Mrs. Milkovich said, “I was saving this room for last because I didn't know what to keep and what to toss. You're kinda doing me a favor now.” Ian went to the dresser and pulled the drawer open. In the middle of the pile was that tacky shirt.

She left the room and came back with a contractor bag and a few boxes. “Take what you need in the bag. Pack any shit that should be saved in the boxes. Whatever else you leave behind I'll throw out.”

Ian felt the same twisting in his stomach from earlier. There were so many memories he had pushed aside when Mickey first went to prison. He tried so hard to be done with that part of his life and he dove deep into moving on. It was futile though.

Mickey popped into his thoughts at the most inopportune moments. Ian remembered barely being able to think straight at his first date. He’d had an easy rapport with Caleb but on the date, all Ian could think was how everything was just wrong.

His first date was supposed to be with Mickey. He was supposed to be borrowing Ian’s clothes, drunk off his ass with a split lip, chomping on his nasty rare steak at a fucking greasy Sizzler. Ian was so distracted that he couldn't concentrate on anything Caleb said. He only managed to shake Mickey off his mind long enough to answer in short bursts. At one point he couldn't stop himself from bringing up Mickey but tried to cover it up with a little smack talking. It was a disaster. That was, until he tagged along as Caleb went on a call.

When Ian saw the injury the woman sustained that night, he found himself focused in the midst of chaos, empathetic, needed and helpful. After feeling like everything he knew about himself was so hazy post-diagnosis and post-Mickey, it finally felt like he could make out the outlines of something. It was as if he was squinting at someone approaching in the distance.

 

* * *

 

Yo Gallagher,

Spring fucking break is a straight up nightmare. All month I've had to deal with these drunken  _[gringo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/gringo) _ shitheads and their stupid fucking mating call, “Woo hoo! Spring break! Let’s make out!” These assholes act like this city is their fucking playground cause they have _[mucho dinero](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/mucho%20dinero). _ It's obnoxious. The only good thing is Joy’s bar gets so busy this time of year that they had me work for the month as a dishwasher. I stuck to the back of house as much as I could. Still get jumpy in large crowds of  _[Americanos](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Americanos)_  and not just cause I don't wanna make out with them.

Remember I saw Fiona’s ex?  He came by again this afternoon. I was reading at my spot at the beach. He came and sat next to me like a creep. Didn't say anything, just fucking looked at me. This weirdo even opened my tube of Pringles and helped himself to a few. Just when I swore he was gonna say, “Spring break! Why don't we make out!” he finally says, “I know a guy who needs an English-speaking manager for his auto shop.” I told Bugs I'm trying to stay outta fucking trouble. He said I wouldn't have to do anything sketchy, or rather, I wouldn't fucking know I was doing anything sketchy. Told him I'd think about it. Then he tried to fucking make out with me because it is spring break after all.

Do me a favor? Svetlana is being a fucktwat and refuses. I had my green Hawaiian print shirt in the top drawer of my old dresser. You think maybe you could find it for me? I don't know who the fuck’s at the house now though. You know how to get shit to me once you find it, same as all the other stuff. It's not the biggest fucking deal but I just really liked that shirt. It was kinda sexy and it’d be nice to have something from home with me. I’ve been fucking missing the weirdest things.

-Mickey

  
P.S. Nesto’d never shotgunned a beer before so when I stuck the can he just looked at me like I was crazy.  And while that shit was ejaculating on his face, I'm screaming for him to open his mouth. I felt like I was in the Woo Hoo! Spring Break! edition of a bad porno.


	9. Agua Tranquila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, May 14, 2017
> 
> 4 months, 3 weeks since Mickey went to Mexico. 3 weeks since Ian's last letter.
> 
> Ian has an eventful day at work. Mickey starts a new job.

“What a fucking day, huh, Gallagher?” Sue shook her head as she drove the ambulance.

Ian was covered in placenta. Placenta on his cheek. Placenta in his hair. Placenta on his shoes. Placenta on the crotch of his uniform.

They were on their way back to the station from an emergency delivery call at the Fairy Tail, where Ian used to shake his caboose for money. A gay strip club was an unusual place to give birth but he couldn't really judge. He and his siblings were delivered on the old dining table in his family's kitchen. Despite Ian’s bloodied appearance, the delivery was successful and there were no major problems. It seemed that mama and baby got their fairy tale beginning after all.

When they first got the call, Ian had been scared. Childbirth is risky and unpredictable even under ideal circumstances, and popping a baby out in the middle of a crowded club surrounded by patrons in various states of inebriation is certainly not ideal. They rushed into the club, the blue and red lights flashing everwhere. The sickly sweet scent of spilled alcohol, sweat, and horniness enveloped them. Thumping dance music reverberated in his chest. Ian recognized a few regulars in the crowd. He wondered if they recognized him too. Maybe not, he was wearing too many clothes.

A blue light danced over their patient. The expectant mother was lying on a banquette with a small group of people. Ian’s first thought upon seeing her was to wonder much of his own ball sweat must be soaked into these cushions from his stripping days. And now his ball sweat would be an integral part of the start of this new life.

Then again, it wasn't Ian’s ball sweat. That ball sweat belonged to Curtis, the gold booty short flaunting, tiny necktie wearing, handjobbing exotic dancer of his past. So really, it was Curtis’ ball sweat anointing this mother, his fairy tail woven into her fairy tale. This idea nearly tickled a laugh out of Ian, except he was too scared of fucking up the delivery to do so.

“All I want is a nice warm shower,” Ian sighed. They pulled into the station and the ambulance hummed to sleep. Ian began gathering his placenta-coated belongings.

“You did good, Ian.” Sue smirked at his bloodied face, patting his shoulder before they stepped out of the vehicle. Ian beamed at the recognition.

In the shower, Ian peeled his bloodied uniform off and tossed it in a bag. He ran the shower and lazily lathered himself. Under the warm water, he smiled to himself, watching red swirl and twirl down the drain.

 

* * *

 

Ian,

I can swim now. This morning Joy and Nesto wouldn’t shut the hell up about teaching me cause the ocean was _[muy tranquila hoy](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Muy%20tranquilo%20hoy) _ or whatever. After breakfast they dragged my ass to the beach and dunked me under water for an hour. Somewhere in between all the crying and waterboarding and drowning, I actually learned to swim a little. I can't go far or fast but fuck it, I can get from one point to another. I feel real good too. Kinda proud of myself even though it's not a big fucking deal. Joy was even more excited about it than I was. After we stepped out of the water for _[un bocadillo](https://www.google.com/search?q=mexican+bocadillo+snacks&safe=off&client=ms-android-att-us&prmd=isvn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjZjcfgp7LTAhXINSYKHZ8rBN0Q_AUIBygB&biw=360&bih=559&dpr=4) _ break, she put her hand on my junk and said, “You’re a fucking new man now.” Real fucking drama queen, that one.

While we were eating, I told them how when I first came to Puerto Vallarta, everyone kept giving me free food and drinks. Nesto said that I must've accidentally crashed a few _[posadas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Las_Posadas)_  since I arrived the week before Christmas. It’s some sorta party where people beg to go to someone’s place and at first the owner tells them to go the fuck away. But everyone knows the owner’s full of shit so they keep pestering those fuckers until the doors fly open and everyone lets loose. If Nesto is right then the mystery of my free tacos is now solved. It's like this town had a welcome home party for my fine fugitive ass.

I might be moving on up from Joy’s jizz-drenched couch. These two college students, Mariana and Chepe, are looking for a third roommate for July. Chepe’s one of the students I teach English. He's also the one who introduced me to Nesto. Mariana’s an art student who has blue hair. She likes my Hawaiian print shirt, so thanks for taking care of that shit for me.

I decided to check out the auto repair job that what’s-his-face told me about. The boss, Hansel, wanted an English-speaking manager because he has a bunch of customers from the  _[gringo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/gringo) _ part of town. I just finished one week on the job and I can’t complain, it’s been alright.

My mechanics are Mel, Cas, and Baltasar. They haven't busted my balls too bad. Actually, one of them gave me a good idea. Joy drove me to work on my first day and Mel lost his fucking mind over her. He was practically humping cars. The next day I sold him a picture from the Forever Lazy photo series. As he’s pitching a tent looking at her photo, I was thinking that his mechanic’s uniform is kinda like a specialized Forever Lazy, but for people who aren’t lazy and don’t need to shit through a butt flap. Gonna borrow it for Joy.

-Mickey

P.S. While I spent the day swimming in a warm ocean  _[paraíso](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/para%C3%ADso),_  you’ve probably been swimming in piss, vomit, and whatever other juice people can squeeze outta their bodies. Fuck you, Gallagher. Shoulda come with.


	10. The Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, June 10, 2017
> 
> Five and a half months since Mickey went to Mexico. Three weeks since Ian's last letter.
> 
> Ian has some alone time. Mickey has a sunburn.

That night Ian dreamt of Mickey. They were camped outdoors the night before Mickey drove into Mexico. Freights trains rumbled overhead on old bridge tracks, the view of the full moon boxed in tightly by its sharp edges. The old blanket they’d spread on the ground smelled funky like musk, body grease, and sweat. Ian lay on his back, admiring the side of Mickey’s pale moonlit face as he sipped a beer. When Ian looked back up the bridge had vanished.

In its place was a sky as inky black as Mickey’s hair, with tiny bluish stars sprinkled around the moon’s cool glow. Ian’s chest felt open at the sight. He didn't know there could ever be so many stars or that any sky could ever be so inviting. He rolled toward Mickey who was now lying on his back. Ian rested his head on Mickey’s shoulder and Mickey draped his arm under Ian’s back.

The warm palm of Ian’s hand pressed against the center of Mickey's chest. Slowly, it traveled over the softness of Mickey’s abdomen, one finger slipping under the worn hem of his t-shirt. He smiled when he felt Mickey’s fine body hairs scratching against the pad of his digit. Ian's breath fell in time with the rise and fall of Mickey’s chest. Then Mickey smiled back at him and ran his tattooed fingers through Ian’s red hair. This had to be heaven. Ian fluttered his eyes closed and pressed his nose against Mickey, inhaling deeply.

The sweet, heavy, greasy odor of bacon wafted to Ian’s nose. Ian turned his head and grimaced. Since when did Mickey smell like bacon? He froze when he felt a creaking mattress underneath him instead of the firm warmth of Mickey. He groaned softly. Maybe he could still salvage what was left of his dream.

With sleepy movements, he pulled the sheet over his head to block out the scent of breakfast cooking in the kitchen downstairs. The blanket dragged roughly against his erection. He sighed. Ian gently rolled his hips forward to feel the weighted friction against his cock. He hovered between wake and sleep still thrusting softly against the sheets.

Eventually, Ian gave in to wakefulness. He traced his hands over his chest, down the red trail of hair on his abdomen, and let his right hand wrap around his heavy cock. Exhaling, he began to stroke himself languidly. He murmured Mickey's name, trying to conjure the warmth and the scent and the taste of him. His breathing quickened. Ian could feel it again -- the weight of his fingertips sinking into fleshy hips, the firmness of Mickey’s body pressing roughly against his own, the urgency in Mickey’s voice.

He pressed his head back into his lumpy pillow and moaned quietly into his climax. It was good. It was always good thinking of Mickey this way. But it wasn't enough, never could be. He rested a little longer, letting his breathing even out and his thoughts drift from dream to reality. The open feeling in his chest gradually closed, like rusty bridge beams caging the full moon against an inky black sky.

 

* * *

 

Ian,

Holy shit. Fucking pyramids. Nesto took me to [los Guachimontones](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guachimontones) two weekends ago. Look that shit up online cause I ain't wasting all my fancy stationery explaining it to you, princess. Believe it or not, gawking at enormous round pyramids under a Mexican sky beats the fuck outta looking at tiny towers of trash under the Chicago L.

Archeology’s alright but I don't really get why someone would wanna do this as a job. Why go around jerking off on old broken pottery or whatever, and then spend your future thinking about the past? Anyway, Nesto's got a real hard on for this shit. When he's yapping on and on about this stuff, his face lights up like that fucking marijuana bonfire that Kev and Vee threw.

Kinda reminds me of you with your old army fetish. Remember how much you used to train for the chance to have someone shoot your ass up? Wouldn't it be kinda funny if one day some future archaeologist finds your old obstacle course and puts that shit in a museum?

They'll probably have my ass print on display with cigarette butts and bullet casings. Your little toy rifle will be in a case next to one of those tread-worn tires and a crushed beer can. The fucking sign will say, “Ancient Mating Rituals of Two Southside Boys.” Shiny northsiders’ll be dropping 15 bucks a pop to check out the gay life that Terry told me was worth fuck all.

Speaking of gay, Nesto said some real flowery shit to me today. He said I had an expressive face, like I could play a symphony with my eyebrows or something. The fuck do you even say to something like that? I sure as hell don't know so I just said, “Fuck Beethoven, man. That asshole was deaf anyway.”

You remember that movie “The Fly”? I look and feel like a fucking Brundlefly right now. Got sunburned this weekend. Didn’t realize I had to apply a fuckton more sunscreen when swimming. My skin’s peeling and red. It’s pretty hideous. But the absolute worst part is the itch. Whenever I try to scratch, it only hurts more. The itch is so deep I feel like I need to rip my fucking flesh off to scratch at it.

-Mickey

P.S. I bet you 20 US fucking dollars by the time you read the word Brundlefly you were thinking to yourself, “Mickey’s bugging out.” You and your fucking puns, man.


	11. Siempre Contigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday June 16, 2017
> 
> Five months, three weeks since Mickey went to Mexico. 1 week since Ian's last letter.
> 
> Curtis meets Dasha. Mickey sends a few postcards.

“So you got wifed up, ey Iggy?” Ian winked at the newlywed Milkovich in the dairy aisle at the grocery store.

“Yeah, what can I say? The moment I saw her climb that pole, flip upside down, and spin like a helicopter, I knew she was the one,” Iggy grinned, “She looked like an angel. She had on a sparkly white angel outfit.”

Ian nodded, “That's kinda romantic.”

“Hey, uh, she’s really happy you helped her clean up the old bedroom,” Iggy remembered.

“Not a problem. It needed to be done.” Ian smiled. It had been difficult to sort through all the old memories, but Ian actually felt better afterwards. Well, not right away. Immediately afterwards, he felt like shit. But once the shit storm passed, Ian found that he felt less anxious about seeing the Milkovich house.

“Yeah, wifey said she’d like to have you over for dinner one night so she can thank you. Come through one of these days.”

“I can do that,” Ian accepted.

It turned out that everyone was free that very evening.  Ian picked up a couple of six packs and a small bouquet of daisies for the occasion. He passed by the Alibi to pick up his mail from Svetlana. She had given him an envelope with thick cards inside. Ian would save it for after his visit.

They had a nice Dominican dinner courtesy of Mrs. Milkovich: _mofongo_ with steak. Apparently, not only could she spin like a helicopter, but she was a master in the kitchen. After cleaning off the table, they drank from the six packs and smoked some weed in the living room.

The couple was really funny.  They met while Iggy was on a run and decided to marry two days later. He envied them just a little bit. He remembered the itch of impulsive decision-making when he was manic. He scratched his palm just to feel some relief. 

“Dasha put the pole up yesterday,” Iggy pointed with his chin to the dance pole in the middle of the living room. She jumped up excitedly and decided to show off some of her newest dance moves.

“Aight, check this shit out motherfucker!” She tossed aside her apron, “Sit in the armchair.”

Ian obeyed, “Sure thing, Mrs. Milkovich.” Iggy snorted at Ian’s formality. Dasha pulled out her phone and flipped through her music. A sappy love ballad started to play. Mrs. Milkovich slowly sauntered around the room deftly stripping off her street clothes. Iggy hooted and hollered and smoked some more.

Once her jeans were off, she performed a couple of gravity-defying pole tricks, then crawled over to Ian. Rising to her feet, she gave her best bedroom eyes, flipped her hair back, and unpeeled her bra. She dropped it to the floor while doing body rolls, dragging her hands over tan skin.

“Whatchu think?” she asked.

“You're good, but what is with this song? I don't get it.” Ian furrowed his brow.

“Listen to the lyrics, Ian. This is catnip for lonely fuckers,” she grinned wickedly. Ian picked up the lead singer crooning, “And I know no matter where life takes me to, a part of me will always be with you.”

Ian’s eyes bugged out as he laughed, “Do they cry when you dance for them? This is some real sappy shit, Dasha.”

“Of course they do. I look them deep in the eyes and make my lip quiver at this part right here,” Dasha waited a second then pointed to the ceiling as the part in question played. “They be bawling like babies.”

Iggy suddenly jumped up from the couch and blurted, “That’s right! My baby gets all the lonely fucker money!” He nodded proudly at no one in particular.

Ian laughed and took another hit. “How can you even dance to something like this? Shit. Lemme try it.”

Ian got up and passed the weed to Dasha. He undulated as he stripped his shirt off. “My name was Curtis,” he offered even though no one had fucking asked. He tried putting some of his old dance moves to the ballad but it felt awkward and odd as if his muscles didn’t fit his skin anymore.

“Mm honey, Curtis must be rolling in his grave at this shitshow you call dancing. Give it up. Let me show you how it’s done, amateur!” Dasha guffawed.

“Boo! Curtis, your tits are too small. Get the fuck off the stage!” Iggy heckled Ian. He reached out to accept the weed from Dasha. She pushed Ian back into the armchair.

“Not my fault you got shit taste in music,” Ian protested while leaning back in the armchair. Dasha flipped upside down onto Ian. She pressed her feet into the back of the armchair and thrust her crotch repeatedly in his face, “Oh ok, uh yeah, that’s fucking impressive, Dasha. Anyway, I haven’t danced in a while. Now I hump ambulances instead of wrinkly old men.”

Upon hearing this, Iggy threw himself down on the couch in a laughing fit. In between his gasping laughter, he eeked out, “Oh fuck! Hey Gallagher! Remember that time Mickey humped a police car and told Terry that he likes to take cock?”

Iggy was laughing so hard he had tears streaming down his face. “Goddamn! That was the best baby baptism/welcome home Terry/farewell Terry/coming out party ever!”

Iggy howled with laughter for another minute, then suddenly his face fell and he quieted. He sat up and turned to Dasha and Ian, “I don’t know if it’s this fucking song or whatnot, but fuck, I really miss Mickey right now.”

"Oh no, Iggy, no! Don't you make that face. You're gonna fuck up my high," Ian begged but his mood was already turning morose.

Just then, keys jingled in the front door. The ballad was on repeat and brokenhearted crooning filled the room again. Looking from Iggy’s tear-streaked face to a topless Dasha lying upside down on a topless, pouting Ian, Mandy went wide-eyed.

“The fuck?”

 

* * *

 

 

 **Postcard #1: Los Guachimontones** \- A side-view of a round, grassy hill of circular steps.

_[Muy lindo.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/lindo) _

-M

 

 **Postcard #2: El Malecon** \- A bird’s eye view of a boardwalk with people milling around.

_[Me gusta caminar aquí.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Me%20gusta%20caminar%20aqu%C3%AD.) _

-M

 

 **Postcard #3: Mexico City** \- A cathedral at night.

I’ve never been here but the cards were on sale 5 for 5 pesos.

-M

 

 **Postcard # 4: Puerto Vallarta** \- A sunset over the ocean. The red, orange and pink sky faded into blue and purple.

_[Siempre conmigo.](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/siempre%20conmigo) _

-Mickey

 

 **Postcard #5: Viva Mexico!** \- A sandy white beach, with three tan, buff men turning their backs to the viewers. Each man was wearing a tiny banana hammock in one of the colors of the Mexican flag: green, white and red. The man in the middle pulled his white trunks down to show off his tan line on his left ass cheek.

Fuck.

-M


	12. What Goes Around Comes Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday, July 8, 2017
> 
> 6 1/2 months since Mickey left, 3 weeks since Ian’s postcards
> 
> Mandy and Ian talk about sex. Mickey writes about relationships.

“Hey, I lost my vajayjay virginity this year.”

Mandy tucked Yevgeny into his rocker to nap, brushing his hair out of his face. She sat back up on the Gallagher couch and looked at Ian blankly, “I don't get the joke, Ian. Is this some sort of corny pun?”

“Not a joke,  _[amiga](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/amiga)_. I had sex with a woman. I have experienced vagina-fucking,” Ian took a sip of his water.

Mandy stared at him in disbelief. “So you were able to get it up,  _[amigo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/amigo)_?” she asked narrowing her eyes as she slowly repeated the Spanish word back to him.

Ian blushed but nodded. Mandy’s face twisted, “So what was all that limp-dicked titty-grabbing you did when you came out to me? Shit, I fucking knew I shoulda let Mickey beat your ass back then!” She watched his reaction carefully at the mention of her brother’s name.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed her with a laugh. “It wasn’t easy for me. I had to concentrate really hard on wanting to be touched, and not so much on wanting to do the touching. I didn't like it much, don't wanna do it again. The words ‘Oooy, I’m so wet’ are actually kinda scary for me now.”

She made a face, “What the fuck, Ian? Why’d you even bother? There's plenty of men out there to bang.”

“Well, that really nice sculptor firefighter turned out to be a cheating asshole. Fucked around on me with his old high school sweetheart, Denise.”

“Holy shit!” Mandy exclaimed. She peeped over at Yevgeny to make sure she hadn't woken him.

“Yeah,” Ian gently used the tip of his foot to push Yevgeny in his rocker, “he was fucking a woman. So I felt like maybe I should see what it's like. Like maybe I was really closed-minded about things.”

“Fuck off. That's stupid. You can lean bi and not play your boyfriend,” Mandy rolled her eyes. Ian smirked. Lip had also pretty much written this off as Caleb using cheater’s logic.

“It's just that . . . Mickey used to fuck women. Shit, I mean, he had a fucking wife," Ian began. He looked at Yev napping and whispered, "No offense to you and your mom, little guy." Yev only responded by snoring louder.

Ian continued, "Fucking Ned or Lloyd  or whatever-his-name-was had a wife, so did Kash. And then Caleb had a fucking woman on the side. I’d always thought they were all just in denial about being gay. But Caleb said he was gay even after he admitted he fucked Denise and her fucking vagina. He was acting like I didn't know shit cause I’d only fucked men. I thought maybe there was something I didn't understand. Maybe I was missing something. Like maybe vaginas held some special secret."

“Ugh, every time you mention fucking Kash I wanna barf. You were what, 14, 15 when you started banging? Fucking nasty,” Mandy shivered. She knew it was off-topic but she couldn't help herself: Kash was so very nasty. She could remember seeing him behind the counter at the Kash and Grab, quivering like the haram gelatin he sold but was forbidden to eat. He probably found skinny little Ian unchallenging and safe, pliant and moldable like hot gelatin mix being poured into little cups of his choosing. Ian would taste sweet and feel soft on his tongue, the complete opposite of his wife’s bitter, astringent brew.

Ian shook his head at her in annoyance. He furrowed his brows and waited for her to get back on topic. She sneered defiantly but let him continue.

“So I went home with some girl I met on the L. Gargled with beer. Swore off women. Broke up with Caleb.”

“Ok, yeah. Just another day in the life of Ian Gallagher: decide to try pussy for the first time and it just magically falls into your lap -- literally,” Mandy snorted, “How do you even get that much play?”

Ian raised an eyebrow and wiggled his tongue lasciviously. Mandy snarled and flipped him off.

“So, who you banging now?” Mandy asked teasingly.

Ian laughed, “No one. I did have another boyfriend after Caleb though. His name’s Trevor. We broke up like the beginning of March. Still hang but no bang.”

“Trevor’s the trans guy you texted me about before, right? The one who wanted top your skinny ass?”

“Good memory,” Ian was impressed.

Mandy nodded and tapped on her temple accepting his compliment. She realized this was the right moment to bring it up. She narrowed her eyes and drawled, “Well, it sounds to me like what goes around comes around.”

Ian gave Mandy a quizzical look. Mandy shrugged one shoulder, “Caleb fucked around on you. You fucked around on Trevor.”

Ian was surprised. He hadn't told Mandy anything about what went down with Trevor. Is that even how you use that expression? Didn't matter. He understood.

“Ian, you're shady as fuck,” Mandy smirked knowingly, “You’ve been watching my nephew again. Cleaned your shit out of the bedroom after more than a year. I figure something must be up,  _[amigo](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/amigo)_.”

Ian swallowed, “What do you want me to say?”

“Southside rules still apply. Don't say anything. Just . . . you and me? We don't have to pretend,” she said softly, “That's when we became friends, right? When we stopped pretending.”

Ian pulled a faint smile. While they had stopped pretending with each other they'd begun pretending with everyone else. He nodded at his first and only “girlfriend.” He fucking missed this woman. He reached out and brushed the hair off her face tucking it behind her ear. He was still amazed at how different she looked as a blonde. How would Mickey look with lighter hair?

Ian looked down and shook his head. With a naughty smirk, he peered at Mandy through his lashes and said, “So I guess I'm an asshole too, huh? Fucked around on my man with an old sweetheart.”

Mandy grinned, “Definitely an asshole.”

His face turned serious, “You know what's funny? Well, not funny but strange. It's as if I knew it would happen.”

Mandy furrowed her brows.

“I tried so hard to forget him before I even started seeing Caleb but once me and Caleb were done, it was like a flood. He was all over the place. He'd just pop into my head when I'd see things around the neighborhood. Or when I started seeing Trevor something would come up in conversation or when we’d hang, and he'd be floating around in the back of my mind until I would get home.”

“Ew, I don't wanna know about your alone time whacking habits,” Mandy joked.

“Fuck off. You know what I mean,” Ian laughed.

He continued, “I saw him again and I was hit by this wave -- all these fucking feelings, and thoughts, and memories. All these tiny streams I saw were flowing to him. Mandy, I’ve never wanted to fucking swim so badly in my entire life.”

Mandy chewed on her lip. There was too much feeling, not enough control for her taste. She felt she would drown if she weren't fighting it. She teased, “Fuck, Ian, that's pathetic.”

Yevgeny began to stir and Ian bent down to pick him up. He blinked back the moisture in his own eyes and laughed, sweeping his hand down his face. The fuck else could he do?

 

* * *

 

Hey Gallagher,

No shit you’re not with that fudgepacker anymore. You think I didn’t know that already? You’ve been writing fucking  _[novelas](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/novelas) _ compared to the measly crumbs you used to send off.

You’re not the only one who’s single now. I stopped seeing Nesto a couple of days ago. He just says these things to me. You know what kind of shit I mean. I don't know what to say back but I suspect I know what he wants me to say. I think it's only fair I should let him find his prince charming. I’m not gonna be the one to sweep him off his feet and ride his cock into the sunset. Fucking sucks though.

Joy and Mel are banging now. I'm happy or whatever for her. He’s hard working. So is she. They’re both kinda nasty, kinda nice. He doesn't give her shit for the years worth of snatch pics she’s put out in the world. She doesn't give him shit about all the women he’s friends with.

I wonder how Mandy is doing. I was fucking glad when you told me she's not fucking with Kenyatta anymore. I hope he never finds her again. Or worse, that she goes sniffing around for him. She was a dick-breathed pain in my ass but she deserves good things.

Now that me and Nesto are done, Joy and Mel said they wanna take me to a gay club this weekend. What the fuck kinda weirdness is that? I don't need them giving me high fives every time some guy gropes my ass. Nor do I need to see them holding up score cards like they're judges in the Fuckability Olympics.

-Mickey

P.S. Kiss my boy for me. Yev must be getting big now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, motherfuckers. May 2017 brings you lots of interesting, beautiful stories in both literature and life.


	13. El Beso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, July 30, 2017
> 
> 7 months, 1 week since Mickey left, 3 weeks since last letter.
> 
> Frank and Ian reflect on Monica, Mickey has a nightmare

Ian was restless. It was his day off and he was itching to do something. He didn't want to watch TV. He wasn't in the mood to read. He didn't particularly feel like talking to anyone.

Fuck it. He’d go for a walk and see what changes gentrification brought to the neighborhood. He tossed on some fairly fresh clothes and his sneakers. Then he began strolling in the direction of the Shake Shack, because he figured it must be at the epicenter of Southside gentrification.

On his way he saw Frank seated on a bench reading a book. The last time he remembered Frank reading was when he was trying to give up drinking for a paid medical study. That was quite a while ago. Ian was just a scrawny little teen then.

Frank was sitting very quietly. He was devoid of his usual frenetic energy and, surprisingly, was not in the middle of an obnoxious soliloquy. Ian sat down on the bench and looked at the sky ahead. In his view was an L station, the underside of which had rust, peeled paints, and assorted bird droppings. Trains ran to and fro over its tracks in endless loops. When the trains arrived, they birthed swarms of people all headed to different destinations. 

Ian remembered riding the train with Lip to spy on Caleb’s date with Denise. Caleb kissed her passionately, grabbed her thick, soft thigh, pressed her against a building. He grinded on her like train wheels braking on rusty train tracks, sparks flying. Ian and Caleb were definitely not going in the same direction after that trip. Shit, they were probably not even in the same transit system after Ian discovered that fucking nonsense.

He turned his body to face his father. Frank seemed to just realize there was someone beside him now. He looked up from his book at Ian. He gently closed the book around his finger and smiled crookedly at his son. Frank’s eyes were sadder than usual.

Frank scanned all the planes and features of Ian’s face. Ian thought that he must be searching for Monica. Ian let him. He had always reminded the family of Monica the most. This hadn't necessarily been a good thing when Ian was a child and there were days when Frank would take his anger out on him. Today was not one of those days.  

Ian looked over his father's face too. He followed the path of many wrinkles, folds, and little scars collected over Frank’s lifetime. A map of his experiences and bad decisions was etched into his skin. The ruddy bloom of alcoholism spread over his nose and cheeks. 

Ian noticed Frank’s blue sorrowful eyes. They reminded him of Lip’s eyes. His gaze fell to the deep laugh lines bracketing Frank’s mouth. Grooves from happiness and laughter challenged the sad story his eyes told.

Ian’s eyes flicked down to the book. It was the book Fiona had read from at Monica’s funeral. The worn blue cover had brown smudges on its edges. Ian wondered if some of the smudges were from Monica's stash of drugs. The buddha statue on the cover smiled serenely.

Sometimes Monica would smile at him the same way. She would be so pleased to see him. One of the last things Monica had told Ian was that he was beautiful. Even now he could hear her slowly drawl those words with awe in her voice, tumultuous ocean waves in her eyes.

Ian also remembered the last words he spat at her feet before storming off. It wasn't untrue what he said to Monica. He was angry, upset, and resentful. But it pained him that this was the last exchange they had. Monica accepted him after seeing him at his worst yet Ian rejected her for the same.

But Monica had Frank. He accepted her back again and again and again. At the Gallagher house after Monica’s funeral, Frank danced, smoked meth, smiled at the family he and Monica created. Fiona looked over and said something about the motherfucker really loving the crazy bitch. He really did, didn't he? Was that even a good thing? Maybe it simply is -- good, bad, all that shit.

Frank must've noticed Ian’s pensive mood. He reached his arm across the back of the bench and placed his hand on Ian’s left shoulder. “Son,” Frank whispered and smiled his crooked smile again. This time Ian smiled back. Frank stood up slowly, kissed Ian on the forehead then walked away.

 

* * *

 

Ian,

It’s 3:12 AM right now. I just had a crazy fucking nightmare. I was in the Kash and Grab, and there was a big tree growing in the middle of the store and instead of fruits it had Snickers hanging everywhere. It was amazing at first. We plucked the Snickers off the tree. You took me to the freezer and bent me over. You fucked me hard while I ate Snickers of all different sizes and we were fucking laughing the whole time. When we were done, I stepped back into the store. Outside the door was Yev and Mandy, so I turned the sign and tried to let them in. I couldn't open the fucking door.

You followed me to the door and said, “Maybe it's just stuck. It happens sometimes.” I turn to grab another Snickers and when I looked at the door again, you're outside with the others. You’re all talking and laughing and not even paying attention to me. I bang on the door so you guys could see me and open it for me. You and Mandy just say to me, “Open the fucking door Mick. Come out. It's a beautiful day.”

I screamed, “How the fuck did you open it, Ian?” You said, “I tried a few things, and one of them worked. And now I'm here. Come on, Mick. Just try a little harder.” I kick it, twist the lock, shake the handle, push, pull and nothing is working.

I called Nesto on the phone and explained the situation. He said, “Go find two avocados, peel off the rind, scrape off the flesh. The pits are hard. Knock them together like I showed you with the rocks. When it's sharp enough, use it to cut the glass.”

So I go to the produce and as soon as I touch the avocados, I hear motherfucking Kash behind me. “Let go, Mickey.” I turned to look at him and he points his fucking gun at my head. I started screaming my ass off. Kash looked me over for a moment then lowered the gun.

We could still hear you guys laughing outside. Kash said, “You wanna go outside? I can take you there.” Then he kissed me on my goddamn mouth. His tongue had little crumbs on it, pork rind crumbs. When he leaned back, I look at his face again but it’s not Kash anymore. It’s Terry. He had fucking tears in his eyes.

I was shaking so hard when I woke up. I’m exhausted. Smoking out on the balcony while writing to you. Trying to calm down enough to get back to sleep. It’s 4AM now. I have to be at work in 4 hours.

Wish I could call out sick, ask Joy to fucking take me swimming, or have Nesto fuck me till I can't think straight. I know I shouldn't. Thanks for reading this. Sorry I couldn't tell you anything good today. I think I’m finally getting tired. Ok, later, Gallagher.

-Mickey

P.S. Fucking Kash. Holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> El beso: the kiss
> 
> Monica's book is titled Siddhartha: http://m.sparknotes.com/lit/siddhartha/themes.html


	14. The Homecoming Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, August 22, 2017
> 
> 8 months since Mickey left, almost 3 weeks since Mickey's last letter
> 
> Carl and Ian check out a pet store. Mickey is the guest of honor at a party.

“Hey, this is some good shit right here. My boy hooked me up. You want in?” Carl wiggled a little baggie as he entered the living room. He was home on break from military school for the summer.

“Sure, I'll take a hit or two . . . or ten,” Ian had just returned from work and plopped on the couch a few minutes before Carl arrived. He slumped further on the couch and rested his head back, “Is that your welcome home present to yourself?”

“You know it,” Carl nodded. He sat on the floor and dutifully got to work on top of the coffee table.

“What's that smell?” Carl asked.

“Probably me. A patient puked earlier so it must've gotten on me.”

“This guy at school named Donny saw a porn where people puked on each other.”

“Oh . . . wow,” Ian didn't know what else to say. Carl always managed to shock people even if he didn't intend to do so. He was a curious fucker who never quite knew where social boundaries were drawn.

Ian watched Carl from behind. He seemed to change so much in the short time he was at military school. Carl: torturer of dolls, bully of weak children, weaponry enthusiast, drug dealer, juvenile delinquent, aspiring military man. Who could have predicted this would be his path?

The brothers smoked in silence. Carl stayed seated on the floor and had put some cartoons on TV. Ian sprawled out on the couch. It was nice having his little brother around the house again even if they didn't feel like talking much. A cartoon rhinoceros with superpowers ambled across the TV screen.

“I wanna see some animals!” Carl shot up full of nervous energy.

“The fuck?” Ian laughed.

“Animals. I need to see some fucking animals. Dude, you can't lie around being smelly the rest of your life. Come with,” Carl turned off the TV and slapped Ian’s shoulder.

Ian got up and started heading toward the stairs so he could change out of his uniform in his bedroom.

“Animals now! Change later. Maybe some animals will like your vomit cologne. Yeah, maybe they'll hump you or something. Bestiality never hurt anyone. Come on. Let’s go,” Carl said as he headed toward the door.

“Wow Carl. You and Donny are into some exotic shit,” Ian laughed.

“Who’s Donny?” Carl asked. “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Donny, man, yeah, he’s the best. So, what do you think? Pet store or zoo?”

“Uh, pet store. It's closer to Shake Shack. I'll treat you to a burger afterwards," Ian shrugged.

They walked toward the shiny new gentrified hipster pet shop and realized that pet shopping while high was the best idea they’d ever had in their fraternal lives. Every creature they saw made them crack up. Hipsters had the funniest t-shirts. Birds were fucking hysterical with their fussing and flapping. Lizards were chill laid-back motherfuckers. Chinchillas were pretty fucking horrifying with their red demonic eyes but being scared of these tiny furballs only made the brothers laugh harder.

Finally they looked at the dogs. Carl liked the dogs that looked like little foxes while Ian liked the bulldogs best, especially the ones with a jowly, scowly face. As Carl was barking at the foxy dogs, one jowly little bulldog puppy caught Ian’s attention. It was white with black spots, had a little pink nose and blue eyes. The puppy’s little tail wiggled as it swaggered over to him. Ian reached a finger in between the bars and gently stroked the puppy’s soft little cheek. And when no one was looking, Ian unlocked the cage and winked at the puppy.

 

* * *

  


Hey Gallagher,

So you're saving up for a vacation. That's fanfuckingtastic but guess what. I don't give a shit. Keep your freckles and your big ass hands and your ridiculous clown boots over there in the Southside. I sent you some sand. That’s as good as visiting.

You really wanna bother an ex? Why don’t you go fucking hunt down Kash or something? Invite him to the finest corner store you can find, light some emergency candles, share a bottle of fruity wine drink, and nuke two frozen meals for your dinner. It’ll be romantic as fuck. 

Hey, didn’t you say Kash wore a dress when he walked out on Linda? What the fuck is up with you and dudes in dresses skipping town?

Yesterday my roommates threw me a party so I’m a little hungover this morning. I've been living with Mariana and Chepe since the beginning of July. They said it was my homecoming party. Joy and Mel, some guys from the auto shop, a few of my English students, and even Nesto dropped by. It was good until they kept trying to get me to dance. So fucking pushy.

Except for when Svetlana and I got married, I don’t think anyone’s ever thrown a party for me before. Well, maybe my mom did when we were really fucking small. There’s a picture I’ve seen of me sitting topless in front of a homemade cake. Iggy is laughing behind me on a tall bench and somehow he’s got chocolate frosting on his big toe. I’m scowling at him and Mandy is pouting with her hair in braids. We all have on those stupid pointy paper party hats with painful chin straps. I guess it was a little kiddie birthday party for me but I was too small to remember.

-Mickey

P.S. If you really wanna visit one day I won’t stop you but I still think you're a dick.


	15. Las Piedras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, September 19, 2017
> 
> 9 months since Mickey went to Mexico. 1 month since the last letter
> 
> Ian and Debbie talk about love. Mickey gets a second chance.

_“[Tienes brazos muy fuertes](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/Tienes%20brazos%20muy%20fuertes),” _ Ian repeated slowly and meticulously. He wrote the sentence in his notebook.

“Is this for a Spanish class or something?” Dasha asked.

“No, I’m practicing on my own. Figured it would be useful with patients.”

“That’s a little flirty for patients, don’t you think?”

“Nah. What if a patient has arm problems? Then I can reassure them that their arms are strong.”

Dasha remained unconvinced. She peeked over his shoulder at the Spanish notes in his book, “Right, of course. But do you also need to tell them they’re handsome? Doesn’t seem medically necessary to me.”

Dasha took a sip of her beer then turned to Ian with a playful look on her face, “Hey! You ever meet a motherfucker who was dying of heartache?”

Ian’s lips parted in surprise. Immediately, he thought of Frank’s forlorn face crusted with vomit after Monica died, and Mickey’s sallow complexion as he yanked down his orange uniform and showed off the distorted, infected homage to love etched on his chest. They survived -- still are. He faltered for a second before he put on a beaming grin, “No, of course not. But only because I make sure to tell them how strong and handsome they are.”

She raised her brows and smiled. She teasingly drawled, _“[¡Ay, qué malo!](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/%C2%A1Ay%2C%20qu%C3%A9%20malo!)” _ She grabbed Ian’s pen and added this sentence in his notebook while he laughed.

Debbie entered the Alibi with Franny just then. She pursed her lips together when she caught Svetlana's eye, “Hi Ian, let’s go for our walk.” Debbie smiled at the woman sitting next to Ian but stepped out of the bar as quickly as possible. She didn’t like being there since Svetlana conned it out from under Kev and Vee.

Ian packed his notebook and belongings. He waved goodbye, “Thanks for translating, Dasha."

The siblings started walking toward the park where Debbie used to run her stroller-stealing hustle. It was an extraordinarily beautiful summer day. The air was crisp with the perfume of the approaching autumn. Ian bought Debbie and Franny a snack from a corner store on the way over. They settled onto a bench and enjoyed the fresh air and warm afternoon sun. Ian took Franny into his arms and cuddled her while Debbie ate the crackers Ian had bought.

“That was Iggy’s wife, right?” she asked.

“Yeah. You know, they got married on the third day after they met. That’s . . .” Ian searched for a word. Crazy? Impulsive? Irresponsible? Fun?

Thrilling. Fuck, it must have been thrilling. He curled the fingers of his right hand to scratch at his palm and sighed. He settled on, “ . . . something else, huh?”

Debbie huffed at Ian’s understatement. She asked, “And they’ve been married what? Four months now or something?”

“Yeah, around that long, maybe a little longer even. It seems they get along really well. I guess . . . sometimes you just know,” Ian shrugged. Moments like this he doubted his decision to turn back at the border.

Every once in a while, Ian would take out the jar where he kept the Grade A Puerto Vallarta sand that Mickey sent him. He would run his fingers through it and daydream about the choice he didn’t make. Ian reminded himself that he made this decision because he couldn’t run off again, not after he worked so hard to get stable and have his family and coworkers trust and rely on him. He didn’t want to live the life Monica mapped out for him.

Maybe he could visit one day, see that beach sunset with his own eyes, breathe in the salty seaside air of Mickey's life with his own lungs. But even with his eyes closed tightly and grains of sand stuck to his fingertips, he knew this was only a half-assed bullshit daydream. Mickey's not a fucking souvenir on a shelf to be played with when bored. Dasha dove right in for Iggy, and Ian felt his skin burn up when he thought of how tempted he was to be swept away on little streams and rolling rivers. Franny patted Ian’s cheeks and drooled.

Debs shook her head, and spoke ruefully, “I was already pregnant with Franny within four months of dating Derek. I was sure I knew what love was and what I wanted. Sometimes you know, and sometimes you know fuck all.” Debbie tossed three more crackers into her mouth and chewed aggressively, as if chewing could erase her past decisions.

Debbie stared straight ahead at kids playing on the monkey bars. A couple of kids hanging out were Debbie's age. Quietly she said, “I think maybe I fucked everything up, Ian. I wanted someone to be all mine. To love me and never leave me. But I didn’t think about whether I could do the same for someone else, whether I even wanted to.”

Ian looked at the side of her smooth face. Her eyes were a bit glassy. Small cracker crumbs hugged the corner of her lips. A little bit of Franny’s vomit was streaked in the hair framing her temples. She was beautiful even in the depths of her disappointment.

He had been manic when Debbie was dating Derek. Ian had already broken up with Mickey and was resisting his diagnosis at first. However by the time Debbie announced her pregnancy, he’d just begun sticking to his regimen. He called this period of time his zombie phase.

It was spaghetti night. He was seated at the dining table and feeling a bit foggy from his meds. Debbie plastered a strained cheery expression on her face as she said the words, “You’re gonna be an uncle, Ian.” Even before he fully registered what Debs said, his hand began to tremble.

A fat round meatball fell, splattering sauce on his chest and face. It scalded his skin. His jaw had fallen open but he was stunned into silence. As he tried to catch his breath, Ian thought to himself, so this is what it feels like to be shocked while on meds. 

“Do you still wish you were with Derek?” Ian asked turning to look toward the ground. He shuffled his feet and kicked a stone across the footpath.

Debbie glanced at Ian then kicked a stone too. It tumbled and clacked against the one Ian had kicked. “No, not at all. I’m not the same person I was then. Still hurts to think of it though. Still living with the consequences of my decisions.” Debbie smoothed a hand down Franny's back.

Still living. Ian smirked. Nope, he hasn’t met anyone who has died of a broken heart. Suddenly, a tiny hand slapped his face painfully hard. Debbie and Ian gasped and looked at the baby. Franny smiled serenely as a waterfall of drool cascaded over her lip.

 

* * *

 

Hi Ian,

Just in case you were planning on sending me an invite, let it be known that this _gringo_ is never going to a  _[quinceañera](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quincea%C3%B1era) again. _ Turns out fifteen year old girls have some sort of vendetta against me. The first _quinceañera_ I crashed was with you. If you recall, Damon’s homeboy Jesus turned my sinner ass away from the pearly fucking gates. I shoulda known that salvation spiel had to be too good to be true.

The second one I attended was two weeks ago for Mariana’s cousin and that was a swift kick in the nuts too. It started off ok until Nesto joined us a couple of hours later. Some asshole called him a  _[maricón](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/maric%C3%B3n)_. I wanted to beat that homophobe's head open like a  _[piñata](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pi%C3%B1ata)_  but it wasn't necessary cause Nesto took care of himself. Plus, you know I need to stay outta trouble.

Apparently Nesto's got some fucking mouth on him. The Homophobes R Us crew were left speechless. It felt like everyone froze for a second. I didn't get jack shit cause my Spanish is not very good looking. But I completely understood when he grabbed his junk and spit on the ground. It was kinda sexy to see him so riled up. Plus, the junk grabbing was pretty hot too.

That brings me to my next point. I think we fucking gotta cool it with the letters a bit. Since the party I’ve been hanging with Nesto again. It’s fucking ironic or something that he wants to study ancient things but he says that I’m the one who spends a lot of time looking backwards. Maybe he’s right, though. Look, I still wanna know how you’re doing and I still wanna let you know what’s going on here. That’s not gonna fucking change. We’ll just slow down our pace alright, tough guy?

When we visited los Guachimontones a while back, Nesto told me that cultures never really lose their artifacts or whatever. The artifacts change history even though maybe all that shit’s crumbled by now. He says they always remain part of a bigger story that we’re still writing. I really fucking hope his stone smashing ass is right.

-Mickey

P.S. Mariana dumped a plate of beans on that asswipe’s head when we left the party. I know you're thinking, “Cool beans.” Fuck off with that, Gallagher.


	16. Shirley Temples and Bad Beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, November 13, 2017
> 
> 11 months after Mickey's departure. 2 months since Ian’s last letter. A little less than 2 weeks before Thanksgiving.
> 
> Ian doesn't get what he hoped for. Mickey discusses luck.

Svetlana was perplexed. She rummaged through the small box, then started at the beginning and rummaged some more.

“Oh, why it not here? It must be mistake,” she looked at Ian and shrugged.

Ian’s face fell. He shook his head, “No, Svet. It's . . . It’s not a mistake.”

When he learned that Mickey had gotten back with that relic-fucker, Ian hadn't expected a letter last month. But he’d really thought he would hear from Mickey by two months. At the very least, he anticipated a simple postcard with a snide remark extolling the benefits of bumping uglies on top of some ancient ruler’s dusty sarcophagus.

“I, um, I won't be getting letters as often anymore,” Ian looked away and down the length of the bar.

“Yes, I see,” Svetlana said simply. “Is like before. He write a lot, you write not so much. You are taking turns,” she shrugged.

She abruptly turned away and began to pack Yev’s bag while Liam sat on a stool watching them quietly. She tucked Yev’s newest letter with the bundle of letters already in his bag. Svetlana zipped it shut then reached out to caress Liam’s cheek.

“You will take care of my Yevgeny today? You read to him. He likes that,” Svetlana asked with a soft smile. Liam looked at her and nodded with a hesitant smile. She then looked up and unceremoniously handed the bag to Ian.

As he reached for the bag, Ian noticed a bottle of tequila out of the corner of his eye. Mickey’s city, Puerto Vallarta, was situated in the state of Jalisco. This is the only state in Mexico, in the world actually, where a true tequila could be made. Ian knew this because all the travel guides said so.

“Hey,” Ian pointed to the Ouroboros tequila label, “let me have a shot of that tequila.”

“Shot? No, you are watching Yevgeny and Liam today. You are on duty babysitter. No shots. No tequila. Have you learned nothing from your father?” Svetlana grimaced.

“These are the lessons of my father, Svet,” Ian gave her a sidelong look. Although Liam wouldn't have understood he laughed along with Ian while Svetlana shook her head.

Svetlana mixed together some red concoction. She plopped it down in front of the redhead, red liquid splashing over the rim and onto her dark maroon manicure. She gently set a smaller version of the drink in front of Liam. She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Shirley Temple,” Svetlana explained and insisted with the same two words.

Ian snorted a laugh. Ian clinked his glass against Liam’s. He drank his pussy ass 5-year old girl’s mocktail as was expected of him. It wasn’t what he originally wanted but it was good -- sweet, bright, and fizzy. Still, he wondered what it would taste like with a splash of tequila.

With Yev settled in his stroller and Liam’s hand in Ian's, the trio left the Alibi and headed to the Gallagher home. On their way, they stopped at a supermarket to pick up some cookies and granola bars. There in the snack aisle, they ran into Caleb.

“Hmm, looks like you got that hot dad thing going on today,” Caleb teased, shopping basket in hand.

Ian smirked and shook his head at the compliment. “My turn to watch the little guys,” he explained.

Ian looked at Liam, “You remember Caleb, right Liam? You met him a couple of years ago.”

Liam looked at Caleb with his big brown eyes and nodded, “Yeah. We wore nice clothes and Fiona was crying a lot that day.”

“Uh, yeah, that probably was not the best introduction,” Ian rubbed Liam’s head soothingly, “Sorry, guys.”

Caleb smiled apologetically at Liam then turned to Yev. He simply pointed his chin toward the little blond boy.

“Yevgeny. Svetlana’s son,” Ian answered his unspoken question.

“Cute. Very cute,” Caleb said turning his gaze to Ian.

Suddenly Caleb’s face lit up and he reached into his coat pocket. “Hey, if you're not busy next weekend you should come to the reception for an art show I'm in. Three other artists and I are showing our work.”

“That’s great. Congratulations, Caleb. Yeah, maybe I'll swing by.” Ian accepted the glossy flyer Caleb handed him and stuffed it in Yev’s bag.

Caleb patted his shoulder, “Well Ian, it was nice seeing you outside of the station. Text me if you decide to come. You still have my number, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I think I do,” Ian touched his phone through his jeans pocket as if doing so would help him remember.

Caleb waved goodbye to the three boys and continued on his way down the aisle. Liam saw him pick up a pack of Cashew & Ginger Spice Kind Bars and drop it into his shopping basket. He tugged at Ian’s coat and pointed, groaning, “I wanna taste that.”

Ian went to grab a pack, “Wouldn't be my first choice, but tastes pretty good.”

 

* * *

 

Hi Yevvy,

Happy Thanksgiving. If I’m lucky you’ll get this letter before the holiday and not after. You know, I’d never considered myself a lucky person. But one morning, a man with god awful taste in beer said I was.

I’ll never forget it. That was easily the worst beer I've ever tasted. That was the first time in my life I’d ever been called lucky. And that was also the day you were born. Maybe not the exact day but definitely the first 24 hours. The point is -- I’m pretty sure that means you’re a lucky kid who’ll probably enjoy lousy beer.

This holiday you can be thankful for your mom. She’s a freaking pain in the neck but she’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs over you. She’s smart, she’s not afraid to hustle, and she knows how to keep her shit in order. So Yev, you really gotta stop biting her, ok? Yes, I know I’m the one who said that biting people will make you feel better but you’re not teething anymore. 

Not everyone’s lucky enough to have a parent like your mom. I think about the kind of father I had, and I wouldn't wish him on anyone. Yev, I know I wouldn't win any father of the year awards. Maybe I'm a deadbeat cause I’m not around like I should be, but I know I’m not hurting you like he did me. That's gotta count for something, right?

If you’re as lucky as I think are, you’ll get to say you’re better than I ever could be. I’ll toast some crappy  _[cerveza](https://translate.google.com/m/translate#es/en/cerveza)_  to that. 

-Dad

P.S. Miss you, little man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a quick laugh, check out the funniest Caleb fic ever: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5737015


	17. En Otra Vida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday, December 14, 2017
> 
> Mid-December, about 12 months since Mickey left, 3 months since Ian’s last letter
> 
> The boys recall the decision at the border.

The burgeoning sunset brought watery pinks and corals to its pale blue canvas. Soft wispy clouds hung high in the cold sky, tinted yellow like sweet cotton candy. Ian pulled his ratty old gray beanie over the tips of his ears. He adjusted his gloves, skipped down the front steps of the Gallagher house and began to run.

It had been three months since he’d received a letter from Mickey. He understood why but it stung nonetheless. Not that he had anything to complain about compared to the lack of contact Mickey endured in prison.

Jesus, what must that have felt like? He rubbed his gloved hands together. Fuck, so cold. So very cold.

About a month ago, he’d sometimes felt like running into another relationship -- feet pounding, body pouncing, mind numbing. He had even slipped his tongue past Caleb’s lips a few times on the night of the art gallery reception. A few glasses of champagne and a some funky French cheese make for great aphrodisiacs. As does sadness.

In a past life, he would have made bank when others felt that yearning. Grinding and cooing and thrusting, getting all that lonely fucker money. So when Caleb invited him to his studio after the reception to “see some works in progress,” Ian recognized that sadness in his eyes too.

Caleb didn't even bother turning on the lights in the studio. In the dark, Ian swept his eyes over Caleb’s private show of hard edges and sleek curves, then they grinded and cooed and thrust until they felt a just little less lonely. But they both knew they weren't like this anymore. So when Ian slipped out of Caleb’s arms, Caleb merely slipped him a fond smile.

Besides, Ian’s tried distracting himself with relationships before. They hadn't been all bad but maybe what he needed right now was to not run. To not try to shut it all out. To not deny that itch. To stay in place. To know that he could tolerate it.

He'd always carry it, this torch for Mickey. He knew better than to deny this now. He’d stay unsatisfied over unfinished business, yet unwilling to finish it. To watch it blow up then fizzle with noxious fumes like grammy’s meth lab, or like Frank and Monica. He couldn't make the decision any of them made. Not when he wanted Mickey to have so much more than just their relationship for fulfillment.

Mickey deserved to find more joy than Ian alone could offer him right now, deserved more than just being kept alone in a pretty glass jar waiting for Ian’s admiration. Without a doubt, he knew Mickey wanted more as well. Mickey was beyond ready to break out, to chose his own path whether or not Ian would ever come along. And wasn't that what Ian had always wanted for him?

It was fucking beautiful to be out. As he got closer to the Alibi, reds, purples, and blues were smeared on the horizon. Ian imagined that Mickey was enjoying the view of this sunset as well. Hell, perhaps he was even thinking of Ian and his fucking red pubes at this very moment.

Once upon a time, he had made their relationship sound like it was fighting and fucking. This was just a smoke screen, a bedtime story to lull his broken heart to sleep and soothe skittish lovers. For sure there was both fighting and fucking, lots of fucking. But that wasn't what it was about.

It was being drawn together and being pulled apart. Fighting to be together, fleeing when it got overwhelming. But it was also hoping for something better for each other. Every time Ian ran, he shed one skin and grew into another. But while he ran Mickey had been frozen in a cage, locked up somewhere -- in the closet, in a sham marriage, in his home drunk, in a cell. Fuck that. It was Mickey's turn now.

In the end, they both knew Ian had to stop running. He didn’t want their being together to be tallied with the shit that clinicians muttered about during check ups, or spread through neighborhood gossip so the Alibi regulars could chug beers at Mickey's expense. If he kept running they’d spend all eternity chasing each other like nightfall chasing sunset, touching briefly before separating again.

He’d decided even before he stepped into the Jeep that he wasn’t riding all the way but fuck, it was tempting. That dream was so intoxicating. Mickey’s prison daydreams were swirling around them like the smoke trapped in Damon’s shitty makeshift bong -- both dreams and smoke caught in haphazard constructions. “Don't drop that shit,” Damon warned. No, Ian wouldn't drop it, but he would let it go.

He let go because he felt he’d lose himself if he ran high, didn't stay sober. He felt he’d lose Mickey too if he lived his life in submission to his impulses. What would happen if Ian merely reincarnated the worst of Frank and Monica? Maybe Mickey would just spill out onto the ground like the rivers of red from Monica’s wrists, or the slurry of words and vomit from Frank’s mouth.

He remembered Frank eulogizing Monica. Frank’s pilot light was out, he recalled, and Monica was the gas company. They were explosive, volatile, dangerous. They had the potential to create and the potential to destroy. It was a fine line and they pissed all over it, like Little League Mickey showing off at first base.

She is in you, Frank told them. Ian understood this with greater clarity than his siblings ever could. He wanted to learn from Monica's mistakes. He needed to overcome his parents’ weaknesses and be the kind of man that Mickey had advised Yev to become.

Mickey is out there. Maybe Ian would never have him again but Mickey's not lost, not trapped. Maybe if he stayed in place long enough they'd find each other, just as they had once before. Back then Ian was sleeping beauty in a drug-induced slumber outside of the motherfucking Fairy Tail, and Mickey was his knight in fitted black jeans. No, they aren't like that anymore. Maybe they would be better next time.

If Ian learned to dive deeper, maybe he would be ready to take that plunge one day. If Ian learned to stop running, then maybe one night he'd have a chance at happily ever after with Mickey. He settled his bill and stepped back outside the Alibi, his long-awaited letter in hand. Ian turned towards the heavens smiling as he thought of Mickey -- inky black, stars twinkling, wide open.

 

* * *

 

Dear Ian,

Been a while, huh? Things are good. Got my friends, my job, my man. Coming up on a year down here and it's got me thinking about all that led to that point: my family, that fucking shithole house, fucking Terry, Svetlana and Yev, all the time in juvie, in the big house, and of course, your redheaded ass.

In case you were wondering, I still do, Ian. Don't matter if I write as much as before or not. I just do. Always fucking will.

Maybe in another time we’ll find each other again. Maybe in another place we’d have never fucked up from the get go. Or maybe in another life we’re together right fucking now. Maybe, but who the fuck knows?

Back then I was angry at you for a while, but I get it now. On some level I knew you never could come with me all the way. And I don't just mean to Mexico, I mean together with me in this life. And really, I was fucking surprised you took me as far as you did.

But you were right, about so much of it. You were right when you said I was gay and loved you, even when I couldn't admit it. You were right that coming out would be the best move for me. You were right that you needed to get a grip on your bipolar on your own. So I shouldn't have fucking doubted that you’d be right about this -- I needed to start this part of my life on my own.

I always thought I'd be fucked for life. But somehow you left me better than you fucking found me. When I looked at you for the last time, I remembered Yevgeny’s baptism, you telling me you wanted me to be free. You pushed me to be free then. And you pushed me that day at the border. Maybe you went about it like a fucking dick, but I'm free now, Ian. What we had made me free. I guess that's all I really could hope for.

-Mickey

P.S. Fuck you, Gallagher, always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> Thank you for all the kind words, funny comments, and for sharing your time with me over the past 5 weeks of storytelling. I appreciate it very much. I've never met you yet you've made me smile and laugh and think. And isn't that a beautiful thing?
> 
> I plan to begin posting two stories in a month or so (late February 2017) after I take care of some business. One will be letters to Mickey post 7x11, and the other will be an absolutely absurd love story between Mandy and Lip. I hope you'll want to check them out and will consider subscribing to me so you'll be alerted when the next stories come out (http://archiveofourown.org/users/thicklikemud).
> 
> Besos amigos!


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